November Rain
by Blurring Fandoms
Summary: Sherlock has one last strand to take care of in Moriarty's vast web. One last problem and John is free. But is this last strand wrapped around John a little more tightly than he thought? Fem!Sebastian Moran.


It was a bitterly cold November afternoon. Clouds blanketed the sky, a sign of impending rain. A man weaved through the crowd mostly unnoticed, long dark coat billowing out behind him. The bite of the cold could be seen on the man's thin, pale cheeks. The storm in his green gray eyes raged worse than the one above him. He was on a mission, finishing a job that had taken him three years. He had one last target, and he was following her blond hair through the crowd. His stomach lurched as they turned. They were on John's street. Sherlock Holmes had only dared to visit once since his supposed death, to make sure his dear friend was okay. Of course, okay was a relative term. John was in bad shape, but he would survive, Sherlock was sure of it.

Or, he had been sure. But now that he was following Moriarty's right hand man down John's street, he was concerned. When she picked John's lock and slipped inside, Sherlock's stomach plunged to his feet. He clenched his jaw, pacing in a frustrated circle. He took in one sharp, icy breath to gather his resolve, then burst inside. Mentally, he wasn't ready to reveal himself, but John's life was hanging in the balance. He took the steps two at a time, bursting through John's door. Sebastia was still standing in the living room, and her eyes locked on his. She shook her head in disbelief, fists clenching. "No," she muttered.

He stalked over to her, ready to attack. He threw a punch, but she dodged it and swung at his side. Sherlock heard something clatter in the kitchen, and he assumed John had seen him. He didn't dare risk a glance in the man's direction. He couldn't lose focus.

John couldn't believe his eyes. Sherlock was supposed to be dead, but there he was standing in the living room. His mug had fallen to the floor and shattered, but that fact barely registered. He was frozen, watching the fight in front of him. It wasn't until Sherlock had Sebastia pinned to the wall by her throat that he found his voice.

"Sherlock!"

The strangled cry rang in Sherlock's ears, taking him back to that day on St. Bart's roof. He didn't tear from Sebastia's though. He had waited for this day, waited for the time came for him to destroy the last strand of Moriarty's web. He hadn't expected John to be present, but it couldn't be helped now. Reconciliation with John would have to wait. He heard John cry out again.

"Sherlock, let her go!"

Sherlock froze. He didn't release her though. "John," he said, voice frighteningly calm, "she works for Moriarty."

"Worked," John corrected.

"She's still evil," Sherlock argued, scowling at Sebastia. John appeared at the corner of his vision, putting a hand on his shoulder. His gaze was hostile, and Sherlock was mildly surprised when he realized the hostility was directed at him. He released Sebastia, though his guard was still up. "John," he began, but John cut him off.

"So," he deadpanned, "you're not dead then?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, there are more pressing matters at the moment."

"No." John clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. I want an explanation. Now."

"He faked his death, obviously." Both men turned to Sebastia, who was still standing against the wall rubbing her neck. "Moriarty wanted him dead. I'm assuming he found a way out."

"I watched him fall," John exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock.

"You told me yourself he was brilliant," Sebastia replied flatly. She turned to inspect the detective who stood tall, despite the fact that it was clear his proud facade was starting to slip. Her eyes scrutinized him, traveling up and down him before locking on his. She was delighted by the slight discomfort she saw.

"You told her I was brilliant," Sherlock questioned, perking up a bit. John sent him a withering glare.

"Now is not the time to fan your ego, Sherlock," he snapped.

Sherlock's jaw went a bit slack, his shoulders sagging, though the motion was barely visible. He glanced between John and Sebastia, watching their silent conversation. It took only a split second of silent deduction for the gears to click into place. Disbelief clouded his eyes. "Are you two together?"

John wrapped an arm around Sebastia's waist, tugging her close. She leaned her head on his chest, eliciting a sneer from Sherlock. "She kills people," he repeated.

"She needs me," John replied.

Sherlock turned and stalked out the door. Sebastia watched John, expecting him to go after the detective. When he didn't, she ran after him herself. Rain had begun to fall, so she stayed under the awning. Sherlock had stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, and his shoulders tensed when he heard the door.

"Holmes, he's right. I need him." Sebastia paused to take a deep breath. "But he needs you. I'm not going to pretend that I could be noble and bow out of your lives. I'm far too selfish for that. But we can share, can't we?"

Despite the crowd, the world between them seemed silent. Sherlock turned to face her, looming over her, but she refused to be intimidated. She stood tall, meeting his icy gaze with one made of stone. They stood like that for a few more moments, locked in a silent war. Sherlock was the first to speak.

"You need him?"

"He makes me a better person."

Sebastia only saw a split second of thought. She saw the gears whir at light speed, then stop just as quickly. That heartbeat was all the time he needed to weigh all the options and make a decision. He nodded curtly and offered a simple, "Very well," then brushed past her to go back inside. Now he had to deal with John.

He found his friend seated stoically on the couch. He could see the muffled rage on John's face, mixed with something else. Relief? Joy? John was happy he was alive, but he was upset he had been lied to. So, from a logical standpoint, clarifying the gravity of the situation should ease John's mind. Sherlock seated himself across from John, noticing that Sebastia had made herself scarce. No doubt she was listening, but he didn't really care. His attention was now focused on John. But before he could speak, John held up a hand.

"Listen, Sherlock, before you smooth talk your way out of this, I want to let you know something. I died when you jumped. You were my best friend, one of my only friends in this world, and you left me. I took your pulse. I was heartbroken. Those three years were hell, but you know what makes it worse? It was all a lie. All that pain could've been skipped if you trusted me to keep your secret. But you didn't." John stopped, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment he motioned for Sherlock to begin.

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again before he spoke. "John, Moriarty made me jump. He said he would kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't comply. I had to stop his gunmen. I would've told you, but I didn't want to put you in danger. I had to take care of the rest of Moriarty's men so you would be safe."

"You don't think I can't handle myself?" John shouted, cutting Sherlock off.

"What would you do against a sniper, John? Be reasonable!" Sherlock yelled back.

John shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered with an exasperated sigh. "But I might have been able to help you. You don't have to face everything alone, you know. That's what friends are for."

Sherlock smiled softly. "You've said that before."

John groaned. "Yeah, and you didn't let me help you then either, you stupid twat. And look what happened."

Sherlock plopped down into a chair, slouching and letting out a soft, cautious chuckle. "Yes."

There was a soft clatter from the kitchen and Sebastia emerged with a steaming kettle on a tea tray. She set it down and poured two cups, putting sugar in her own before curling up next to John. "You can pour your own, Holmes."

Sherlock shot her a look and was about to offer his rebuttal, but John interrupted him.

"Now, now, you two play nice."

After one last pointed look, Sherlock leaned forward to pour himself a cup. They all sat in silence for a bit, cloudy sunlight filtering through the window and the patter of rain against the glass. Then Sherlock spoke up.

"So, John, what have you been doing lately?"

* * *

**A/N: This 'verse will be continued in Milk and Cigarettes. Welcome back, Sherlock! (Reviews are appreciated 3)**


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